


27. Mirror

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Twinkstober 2020 [27]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aggressive softness, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Crying During Sex, Declarations Of Love, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Patience, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier's love language, Kinktober, M/M, Make that bottom cry, Massage, Mirror Sex, Overwhelmed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pampering, Prone Bone, Rimming, Seriously this is as soft as a kitten, Switch Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Switch Jaskier | Dandelion, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28284330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Twinkstober 2020Prompt: mirrorHow is he supposed to bear this?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Twinkstober 2020 [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923553
Comments: 14
Kudos: 356





	27. Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This is just 5k words of Jaskier lovebombing Geralt until he cries. 🤷

"What," Geralt asks into the relative quiet of the room, "is _that_?"

Jaskier looks up from where he's sitting cross legged on the bed. His tongue is peeking out between his lips, the way it always does when he's thinking hard, and he blinks at Geralt for a moment, uncomprehending. Then he follows Geralt's gaze.

"Oh," he says, then gives a little laugh, "a mirror. Why?"

The tone of his voice is much too nonchalant, and Geralt squints suspiciously. "Why is there a giant mirror at the foot of our bed?"

"Because apparently the rooms here have giant mirrors at the foot of the bed." The bard shrugs and looks down at his notebook again, fiddling with his pen.

He _reeks_ of arousal.

"Jaskier."

"Hm?"

"Is this a sex thing?"

Jaskier looks up at him again, blue eyes wide and innocent. "I have no idea what you mean, dear heart." He's grinning, though, wider and wider, like the cat that got the canary, and Geralt sighs.

"You're a very odd man, you know that?"

The bard closes his notebook and puts it on the nightstand, then he hops off the bed. "Oh, of course I know." He saunters over to where Geralt is still standing by the door. He had sent Jaskier ahead to get them a room as he went to stable Roach, and he's not sure if he is fine with this or if he regrets it. "And you love my oddness," Jaskier continues as he stops in front of Geralt, hands reaching for the buckles at his side.

Geralt sighs, and resigns himself to whatever this will turn out to be.

Jaskier pokes his head out the door and calls for a bath, then sets to removing his armour quickly and efficiently. By the time the bath is ready, Geralt is in his braies and nothing else, his hair untied, and Jaskier has positioned him on the bed. The bard is sitting behind him, gently combing his hair as the tub is brought in and filled with steaming water.

Geralt pays no attention to the girls bringing in the water. He's too distracted by his reflection.

He's always been aware of the contrast between him and Jaskier. Geralt is broad and muscular, with pale skin and his strange white hair, whereas Jaskier is lithe, with sunkissed skin and a mop of brown curls. They shouldn't fit together, but as Geralt watches the bard work the comb through his hair, he thinks about how well they do.

"What's on your mind, my love," Jaskier asks quietly when the girls have left and closed the door, and he places the comb on the nightstand and runs gentle fingers through Geralt's hair. Geralt hums, his eyes fluttering as Jaskier pushes his thumbs into the base of his skull.

"How different we look," he murmurs. "Shouldn't fit."

Jaskier leans into his space, kisses his shoulder. "Oh, but we do. Opposites attract, darling," and he chuckles and nips gently at Geralt's skin. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up." He slides off the bed and offers Geralt a hand, and the Witcher lets himself be led to the tub. Jaskier undoes the ties of his braies deftly and puts them away as Geralt steps into the water with a moan. Jaskier smiles. "That's what I like to hear, darling."

Geralt smiles softly as he sinks as far into the water as the tub allows. "I know you do."

"Hm," comes a hum as Jaskier pulls up a stool and sits behind Geralt, "but do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because that sound means you feel safe," he says softly. There's the flick of a bottle being uncorked and the scent of chamomile fills the air, and Geralt takes a shuddering breath. Then Jaskier's hands are on his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the hard bands of muscle there. Geralt groans. "It means I'm giving you something you need, something you wouldn't allow yourself as often as you need it." The bard works diligently, and soon Geralt is loose and relaxed and almost purring with pleasure.

Next, Jaskier washes his hair, with a barely scented soap he has specially made in Oxenfurt. "I know how sensitive your nose is," he'd said the first time he presented the soap to Geralt. It had probably been the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given him.

Jaskier's process involves many small intricacies like that, starting with the soap. There's also a hair oil that smells very lightly of pine, and when he's done with that, he carefully cleans Geralt's nails. Sometimes he massages his feet, something that had led to quite a few confused noises from Geralt the first time it happened. Now he just lies back and lets Jaskier do as he pleases.

When Jaskier deems him to be as clean as he can be, he fetches a towel as Geralt steps out of the tub. "Are you going to tell me what the deal with the mirror is?"

"All in good time, dear," Jaskier says mildly as he pats the Witcher dry, then wrings the water out of his hair. Then, finally, he kisses him. He tastes like mint, and a hint of ale. "Help me with my clothes?"

Geralt undresses him slowly, his turn to kiss and stroke. Jaskier sighs and smiles and indulges him until he's naked, before he gently directs Geralt towards the bed.

"On your knees, love," he says, "face the mirror?" He deliberately phrases it as a question. Geralt can say no. He can _always_ say no to Jaskier's at times odd ideas, but he learned quickly that they are immensely good ideas nine times out of ten, even if they seem strange at first blush.

And so he follows Jaskier's direction and kneels on the bed, similar to the way he kneels for meditation, and waits. The mirror draws his eyes, whether he wants it or not, and as Jaskier moves around the room a moment longer doing something or other, Geralt lets himself look.

Broad shoulders. A wide chest. Thick arms and thighs. Strong hands. Well-muscled stomach. Larger than average cock.

Scars, everywhere. White hair. Yellow cat eyes.

What does Jaskier see when he looks at him? What about him makes his eyes go soft and his mouth quirk into a smile? Geralt has no idea.

Jaskier moves onto the bed behind him; there's the bottle of chamomile oil in his hand. He places it on the nightstand and moves into Geralt's space from behind, winds his arms around his waist. "How are you feeling," he asks, presses a soft kiss to Geralt's neck.

"Fine."

The bard chuckles. "Let's see if we can improve on that." He kisses his neck again, then asks, "Can I touch you?"

Geralt nods, and Jaskier smiles, soft and pleased. His hands start stroking over Geralt's stomach, fingertips trailing through the line of hair leading to his cock. It tickles, and Geralt squirms, just a little. Jaskier shushes him with a smile and moves upwards, stroking softly along his flanks. Geralt watches him in the mirror. Jaskier's face is calm, his gaze focused on the motion of his hands. He looks like he's watching something beautiful.

The bard moves up, hands cupping his pectorals. It looks obscene, Geralt thinks, unable to tear his gaze away. Jaskier sighs against his neck as he strokes his thumbs gently over Geralt's nipples. "Fuck, I love your tits so much, darling," he breathes, and Geralt squirms again.

The first time Jaskier had used the term, Geralt had pushed him off and stormed away, angry and ashamed. When he'd finally returned to their camp, he had been calm again, but only because he had decided not to let himself get fooled by pretty words and soft touches again.

Jaskier had been sitting by their fire, arms around his knees. He didn't say anything for the longest time, and when he finally looked at Geralt, he'd looked as though he was about to cry. "I'm sorry," he'd said, "I didn't mean- I didn't want to cause offense. It's just..." He'd huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "I just really like the term, when it fits. It certainly doesn't fit _me_ ," and he'd pressed his palms to his own flat chest. "But you? You're _so gorgeous_ , Geralt, and when I put my hands on your chest, it's just the perfect handful." He'd flushed, a longing both in his voice and on his face, and Geralt had felt his resolve break.

"Don't call them that," he'd said as he crawled into Jaskier's lap, then kissed him until the bard was breathless. "Not tonight. I'll... I have to think about it."

Two weeks later, when Geralt had lain with his head in Jaskier's lap by their fire, he'd said, "Do you remember that word I asked you not to use?" Jaskier nodded, his hand stilling in Geralt's hair. "I think... I'm fine with it. You can say it."

And Jaskier had smiled, and said, "Thank you, my love," and that had been that. He doesn't abuse the privilege, rarely uses the term because he knows it still makes Geralt squirm in vague discomfort, but every now and then the bard can't help himself, Geralt thinks.

Now he's squeezing him softly, rolling his nipples between finger and thumb, and Geralt's breath shudders out of him, his eyes slipping closed as he lets himself feel. The gentle pressure on his nipples, Jaskier's warmth against his back, his lips at Geralt's throat. He groans, and Jaskier kisses his neck again.

"Can you keep your eyes open," Jaskier asks, releasing his nipples to, instead, drag blunt nails through the hair on Geralt's chest. It sends shivers racing down his arms, his sides.

"Hm." He can try, at least. Jaskier smiles at him when he opens them again.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and then his right hand moves further up, up, to cup the front of Geralt's throat. His every instinct shouts at him to break free, to get away, no one has any business touching his throat, it's dangerous, but it's _Jaskier_.

Of course Geralt is going to allow it.

Jaskier's left hand moves down, back over his stomach. He's not fully hard, not yet, but he's getting there, especially with Jaskier taking hold of his cock and giving him a few gentle strokes. "Hm, look at you, my love, so nice and thick in my hand. We'll have to make good use of this room, I really want to ride you," he says softly. "Haven't done that in _far_ too long."

"Nobody's stopping you," Geralt says with a huff of amusement.

Jaskier's fingers tighten around his throat, and Geralt's eyes widen as his cock jumps in the bard's hand. _Fuck_. "Don't get cheeky with me. We both know that's not what you want from me right now." And he shifts behind Geralt, pushes his hips against the small of the Witcher's back. Geralt moans at the long, hard line of Jaskier's cock against his skin. "Isn't that right, Geralt," the bard asks, and all Geralt can do is nod. Jaskier hums and kisses his shoulder. "On your stomach, please." And he lets go of Geralt and moves away, to the side of the bed.

Geralt takes a moment to just breathe, to recenter himself, before he pushes himself off his knees to lie across the bed. Facing that fucking mirror. He pillows his chin on his hands and watches himself. He can only really see his face like this, his arms, a bit of his back, and he lets his eyes slide away from the image. He can't bear it.

The bard is back then, pressing another soft kiss to his shoulder before he moves to straddle Geralt's thighs. "Oh, I _like_ this, having you spread out for me like a feast." He leans down again and pushes Geralt's hair to the side, then nips at the back of his neck, the top of his spine. Geralt shudders. "So lovely," Jaskier murmurs as he splays his fingers over Geralt's lower back. "Gods, if I could have you like this every day of my life, it still wouldn't be enough."

Geralt snorts. "You'd get bored."

In reply, Jaskier slots the hot length of his cock between the Witcher's cheeks and gives a soft thrust. "Never."

The bard continues his gentle exploration of Geralt's back, with lips and the occasional hint of teeth. When he reaches the dip of his waist, he sits up and plucks his bottle of oil off the nightstand. "I'm going to go slow tonight, my love. I want to spoil you." He uncorks the bottle and drizzles some of the oil onto his hand, then puts it away again. Geralt watches as he spreads the oil between his hands, lets it warm there.

Geralt is tempted to close his eyes when Jaskier begins massaging his back, starting at the shoulders again. He's really unfairly good at that. Jaskier asked him to keep his eyes open, though, so he tries his best, watching his lover work through the mirror.

It had surprised him more than Geralt would want to admit how strong the bard is. The first time he had seen him without his chemise, Geralt had stared at his arms, just long enough for Jaskier to notice. The bard had smiled and, uncharacteristically, said nothing. He had rolled up his sleeves more often after that, and taken every chance to divest himself of his clothes. It had been infuriating.

Now, he works the knots out of Geralt's back, finding every one with diligent fingers, until Geralt is all but melting into the bed.

"Still with me," Jaskier asks softly, and Geralt realises he has closed his eyes after all.

"Hm." He's relaxed, his limbs heavy, and he stretches under Jaskier's hands. "F'ls good," he slurs, and Jaskier chuckles.

"Then I'm doing my job," he says softly, then scoots further down Geralt's thighs. He cups Geralt's arse, hums. "Gods, this lovely bum really could start and end wars," he murmurs, massaging and pulling the cheeks apart gently. Geralt shivers, both at the feeling and at the expression on the bard's face. Jaskier keeps squeezing him, his thumbs carefully pulling at his rim. "I want to eat you," he says quietly, and Geralt moans. "Hm, you like that, don't you? Good," he breathes, one thumb teasing at Geralt's hole. "I want to ask one thing of you, my love. I want you to keep watching yourself in the mirror."

Geralt stiffens. That's... _Hm_.

"You don't have to, if it's too much," Jaskier continues, catching Geralt's eyes in the mirror, "but I want you to see what I see. You're so beautiful and I want you to believe me when I tell you."

The Witcher squirms. He really doesn't like this. "I'm not making any promises."

Jaskier smiles softly. "That's alright, I'd just like you to try." His thumb moves down as he speaks, rubbing against Geralt's taint. "Ready?"

Geralt looks down at his hands for a moment, just breathing. When he looks up again, he meets Jaskier's eyes in the mirror and nods. "Ready."

The bard smiles softly, then moves off of Geralt's thighs, laying down between his legs instead. Carefully, he pulls his cheeks apart again, and then Geralt feels his breath against his hole, hot and wet. "You know, your arse really has no business being as pretty as it is," and then he's right there, licking a long stripe from just below Geralt's balls over his hole. The Witcher shudders.

Jaskier stays true to his word: he _definitely_ takes it slow. He works Geralt open with endless patience, with long, soft strokes of his tongue, never dipping inside. It drives Geralt a little mad, and he tries to push back so Jaskier will get the hint.

Instead, Jaskier pulls away completely with a chuckle. "Did you want something, dear heart?"

"Are you going to continue cleaning me like a kitten or are you going to fuck me?" He can't quite keep the growl out of his voice.

Jaskier just smiles placidly back at him. "Don't see why I can't do both," and then he leans down again and kisses Geralt's hole.

"Fuck, Jaskier," he moans, his eyes fluttering.

The bard hums and goes back to his long licks, until Geralt is squirming under him, his cock leaking profusely where it's trapped between the mattress and his stomach. Geralt looks now, watches himself in the mirror, even though everything in him shies away from it.

He's flushed, just a hint. It takes a lot to make a Witcher blush, and this is about the extent of it, the rosy tint to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It's not something he has ever noticed on himself before but that Jaskier is fond of remarking on. "I love that I can make you blush like a maiden," he'd said when he first noticed, "my big scary Witcher," and then he'd ridden Geralt until the cheap inn bed they'd been in broke.

His eyes are dark, Geralt notices now, the pupils blown wide, his lips glistening and parted as he pants under Jaskier's gentle onslaught. His hair is still a little damp, tendrils of it falling into his eyes.

Like this, he can _almost_ believe Jaskier.

Finally Jaskier pushes his tongue into him, slow and careful, and Geralt whines. It's both too much and not enough. He curls his hands into the sheets and tilts his hips back, begging wordlessly, and Jaskier fucking _hums_ against his hole. Lightning shoots up Geralt's spine.

The bard continues like this for a while, slowly fucking his tongue in and out of Geralt, his thumb carefully rubbing at the spot behind his balls. Geralt can't keep in his moans, and again Jaskier hums, pleased.

"Fuck, Jaskier, please," the Witcher groans at a particularly deep push of his bard's clever tongue, and Jaskier squeezes his cheeks before he pulls back, licking over his hole again.

"Do you want my fingers, dear?"

" _Yes_ ," he groans again as Jaskier teases him with the tip of one. His thighs are already shaking, a light sheen of perspiration appearing on his face. "Please, Jask."

"So good for me," Jaskier says as he sits up on his knees again and reaches for the bottle, oils up his fingers again. He, too, is flushed, Geralt notices, his mouth and chin glistening wetly. "How many do you want, Geralt," he asks calmly, and Geralt shudders.

"Three," he gasps when that single fingertip returns, just a gentle pressure without really pushing inside. "Stop teasing, bard," he growls, and Jaskier smiles indulgently.

"Oh, I haven't even started, my love."

That first finger takes what feels like hours, which is _ridiculous_. Geralt can take one finger without batting an eyelash. And still Jaskier moves at a truly glacial pace, taking forever for each knuckle. By the time that finger is fully inside of Geralt, he's about ready to strangle the bard.

" _Jaskier_ ," he says, and the bard looks back at him with a smile.

"Yes?"

"Please," he says, and Jaskier's face softens.

The second finger is worked in quicker, although not _that_ much quicker. Geralt tilts his hips again, tries to get his lover to push deeper, but Jaskier tsks at him and pulls back. "Patience, love, I'll give you what you need." He keeps his eyes on Geralt's as he scissors his fingers carefully, and Geralt shudders.

"Fuck..."

"Hm, beautiful," Jaskier murmurs, then pulls his fingers free before pushing back in with three; Geralt grunts and spreads his thighs farther.

Jaskier appears to be determined to drive him insane tonight. He fucks him with his fingers, yes, but he continues that truly maddeningly slow pace, until Geralt can't hold his head up any more.

"Please, Jaskier, I need you," he moans, pushing back against Jaskier's hand, and the bard shushes him, kissing his lower back before gently pulling back his fingers.

"Such a pretty hole," he murmurs, "so slick and open for me. You'll feel so good on my cock, darling."

"Jaskier..."

"Ssh, my love, I've got you," and he gently nudges Geralt's thighs closed again before he straddles them once more. His cock rests warm and heavy between Geralt's cheeks. "I'm going to fuck your lovely arse, Geralt, and I'm going to do it until you cry because it's just that good. Is that alright with you?"

If Geralt wasn't as mindless with need and pleasure as he is right now, he would scoff at the bard's claim. As it is, all he can do is push back against Jaskier's cock and whine, and Jaskier chuckles.

"Alright, I'm sorry for making you wait," he says as he slicks up his cock; Geralt can feel oil drip onto the small of his back, onto his hole.

Then there's pressure, the head of Jaskier's cock insistent against his hole, and Geralt sighs and relaxes. Jaskier slides into him, slow and even, and all the tension seeps out of Geralt. His forehead is pressed against the mattress and he turns his head when Jaskier encourages him gently with a finger at his temple.

"Look at you," the bard purrs, "don't you look absolutely stunning, taking my cock like this? I wish I were a better painter so I could commit this to a canvas or page."

Geralt squirms under him, both incredibly aroused by and uncomfortable with the thought. Seeing himself in this mirror, right now, is bad enough. The idea that Jaskier would want a permanent depiction of this makes something unpleasant clench inside him.

Jaskier leans over him, kisses his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. "Look at yourself, Geralt," he whispers, eyes moving to the mirror, and Geralt is helpless. He tilts his head and looks and-

 _Fuck_.

Jaskier is over him, holding himself up with his arms. His furred chest is flushed as are his cheeks, and the slow roll of his hips looks sinful. Controlled, precise, almost leisurely. He bottoms out then, his hips pressed against Geralt's arse, and the Witcher moans.

Geralt looks down then, at himself, and his breath catches. He looks... debauched. Glistening with sweat, the flush on his cheeks more pronounced now. "Oh," he says, and Jaskier smiles.

"Do you see, love? Do you see how marvelous you are?" He draws back slowly until only the tip of his cock is inside Geralt, then pushes back inside just as slowly. They both groan, and Geralt's hands twitch. "I'm just... some human," he continues, settling into an excruciatingly slow rhythm, "and I get to have you like this. _Only I_ get to see this part of you, get to treat you so gently you can hardly bear it." Jaskier leans down again, kisses Geralt's temple, his shoulder; the Witcher whimpers. "I love you, Geralt, and I love that you allow me to have this."

"Jaskier," Geralt moans, his hips tilting up, asking for more, for faster, harder. The bard is right: he can hardly stand this tenderness, this relentless and uncompromising love the bard directs at him.

"Ssh, it's alright," Jaskier murmurs, sitting up on his knees where his thighs frame Geralt's arse. He takes hold of Geralt's hips, pins him in place, and continues his slow pace, and Geralt could _scream_.

"Please, Jask, I need it, please," and he tries to wriggle his hips, to force the bard's cock deeper, into a faster rhythm, anything. "Please give it to me."

Jaskier hums and then stops moving, and Geralt buries his face in the mattress and groans in frustration. "Let me take care of you, Geralt," the bard says, rubbing gentle circles into his hips. "Let me make it good for you."

Geralt groans again. He doesn't _want_ Jaskier to be this gentle, he wants him to fuck Geralt, wants him to stop him from _thinking_ so fucking much about what the bard has said, but he knows Jaskier wants this. Wants to spoil Geralt, as he's said. And Geralt can't deny his bard anything, and so he sighs and lets himself go soft and pliant.

"There," Jaskier breathes, so pleased, and a slow warmth spreads through Geralt.

Jaskier starts moving again, just as slowly, his gaze fixed on where they're joined. The measured pace is not nearly enough to get Geralt off, but it feels overwhelmingly good, and he bites his lip to keep from squirming. He glances at his reflection again, and something hot bursts to life in his chest.

He's slack-jawed, his eyes dark and a little glassy, and when Jaskier tilts his hips just so, hitting that hidden spot inside him, his eyes flutter as he moans.

"There you go, love," Jaskier breathes, and aims for that spot again, and again and again, with that same excruciating slowness, and Geralt feels an odd burning in his eyes. He blinks, tries to focus, and Jaskier lets go of his hip with one hand and strokes a gentle thumb over his cheek. The thumb comes away wet. "See," he says, more than just a little smug, "I told you you'd cry."

Geralt stares at Jaskier's hand. "I don't-"

Jaskier bows low over his back, noses at the shell of his ear. "You don't cry? Apparently you do." He kisses Geralt, just a gentle peck against the corner of his slack mouth. "Shall I keep going? See how long it takes you to come from this?"

A part of Geralt wants to say yes. He wants to _know_ , wants to lie there and let Jaskier do to him whatever he deigns to give him. Not tonight, though. "Please, Jaskier," he breathes, rocks back against his bard as best be can. " _Please_."

Jaskier hums. "Alright, my love, I'll give you what you need, you've been so good for me, letting me do what I wanted." He pushes himself up onto his hands. "Can you look at the mirror? I want you to watch yourself when I take you."

Geralt draws a shuddering breath. Jaskier thinks he can do it, so he'll try. He nods shakily, and Jaskier makes a pleased sort of noise.

Then he starts moving again. Slow at first, to get into a rhythm, and then gradually faster, until the sound of their skin connecting echoes in the room. Geralt moans, deep and heartfelt, and he tilts his head and looks at his reflection.

Jaskier's thrusts rock his body gently, his hair jerking back and forth with the motion. He glistens in the candle light, both with sweat and oil, and his mouth hangs open, quiet noises bursting from it with every thrust, " _Uh, uh, uh_." His eyes are half-lidded in his pleasure. He looks _wanton_ , Geralt thinks dimly as his brain turns to mush.

"Do you see," Jaskier gasps as he quickens his pace, and Geralt moans and pushes back into the thrusts. "Do you see what I see?"

Geralt has no idea. All that he can focus on is the fact that it's Jaskier who reduces him to this, who strips away his armour, both literal and figurative, and turns him into this desperate, needy thing. Jaskier, who gives and gives and gives, and it only makes Geralt want, nay, need more.

"Jask-" It's a plea, a prayer, and Jaskier's eyes fall closed. The bard adjusts his knees and curls around Geralt, squeezing an arm between Geralt and the mattress to hold him close.

"I've got you," he says, voice rough and full of promise.

Geralt groans, and Jaskier rests his forehead against his shoulder, and then proceeds to fuck him into the mattress, just the way Geralt wants him to. The _slap-slap-slap_ of their skin echoes in the room, and Geralt moans and whimpers and grunts as Jaskier keeps up a string of both filth and endearments. The mattress under his face is growing damp, Geralt realises, and when he looks up at the mirror, he sees that he's crying, still or again, he doesn't know.

"Jaskier," and he almost chokes on it, his stomach tightening, and Jaskier pulls his knees up more and gives it to him, hard and fast and oh so good. Geralt cries out and presses his face into the sheets in an attempt to muffle his noises, and Jaskier holds him closer.

"Let go, my love," he gasps, his hips never faltering, his aim impeccable, and Geralt... lets go. The boiling heat in his gut bubbles over, and he comes with a shout as Jaskier's teeth graze the curve of his shoulder blade. He comes, and everything goes hazy and soft, and he sags in Jaskier's arms, boneless and overpowered by everything he's feeling in the best way possible. Jaskier grunts and chases his own release, fucking into him a few more times and whispering his name over and over, until he grinds himself as deep into Geralt as he can go with a cry.

They lie there, panting, sticky with sweat and oil, and Geralt would be happy to stay right there for the rest of his long life.

Jaskier pushes himself up, off and out of Geralt, after a couple of minutes and drops heavily onto his back beside him with a huff. He turns his head to look at him, his eyes soft. "Are you alright?"

Geralt just hums into the mattress. He can't speak, can't move. Everything in him is loose and soft, and he wants to hold onto the feeling for as long as he can. Jaskier chuckles and rolls onto his side, fingers a feather light touch against the back of Geralt's hand.

"Thank you, my love," the bard murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to his wrist. "Thank you for indulging me." He reaches up and wipes a stray tear away from Geralt's cheekbone, the expression in his eyes one of such profound adoration that it takes Geralt's breath away.

Later, he will take Jaskier in front of that stupid mirror, will make his bard sing and scream for him. For now, he closes his eyes, and lets himself bask.

Jaskier isn't going anywhere, and neither is Geralt.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/formerly_as_g?s=09)!


End file.
